To Live in This World
by retina burn
Summary: David Rossi has an obsessed fan, one who is not at all innocent or harmless.


**Title: **To Live in This World

**Author: **justspies

**Rating: **PG-13/R

**Disclaimer:** The characters are not mine, I'm just borrowing them for a little while.

**Pairings:** Rossi/Prentiss

**Summary: **David Rossi has an obsessed fan, one who is not at all innocent or harmless.

_To live in this world_

_you must be able_

_to do three things:_

_to love what is mortal;_

_to hold it_

_against your bones knowing_

_your own life depends on it;_

_and, when the time comes to let it go,_

_to let it go._

_~ Mary Oliver_

He sighs heavily, settling onto the couch and resting his glass of scotch on the arm while he swirls it around. The amber liquid catches on fire each time the glass hits a beam of light, a perfect counterpoint to his tempestuous thoughts. He feels troubled and discontent, more than anything else; he doesn't like arguing with Emily, especially when he hasn't seen her in a while. He's tired, too, but that's only natural, considering he's been in five different cities in the last week, and only just flew into D.C. this afternoon. He knew he only had himself to blame for getting this conversation started in the first place, but he'd been chuckling when he mentioned the groupie he seemed to have acquired.

"So you saw him again today?" Emily questions him from the armchair directly across from him. Her voice is subdued, gently probing, though her fingers tangle restlessly together every few minutes while she listens to his story. It was hell just getting him to this point, she had to wrestle each detail out of him, like trying to uproot an ancient oak from the earth.

Her eyes are darker than usual, anchored by mild concern. Sometimes her protective instincts almost rival his. _Almost_. She's a force to be reckoned with if someone she cares about is being threatened in any way, but he's very rarely the one for whom she has to be worried. The most recent occurrence was Doyle, but Doyle threatened _all_ of them, even if Rossi and Seaver were the only ones with the sniper rifle evidently aimed at their heads.

"This time he was more persistent," he replies quietly, not quite meeting her eyes. This isn't a conversation he really wants to have, because he doesn't think there's anything to be overly concerned about. "Look, Emily," he uses that tone akin to a pounding headache, for all the pervasive tension and frustration it begets, "I have fans, that's the nature of what I do, and there are a lot of _different _people showing up to see me. Some like to just read about serial killers, there are some who _want_ to do this kind of work, and there are some ill people who read this stuff for an entirely different reason." He can't help the sudden memory of Zoe Hawkes, and her killer, both of whom had been fans of his. "It's happened before."

"_This_ has happened before?" She looks over at the letter, a verbose declaration of this young man's esteem for Rossi; the words seem to imply he has a crush on him, too, though there is no explicit confession of one.

This person could be ultimately harmless, but the job they do has changed her instincts, made her more cautious, less likely to disregard something immediately and presume it to be innocent and idle.

"What do you want me to do, Emily? I'll keep my eye out. I'm not helpless or naïve, I know how to take care of myself." He waves dismissively at the letter. "This kid's got too much time on his hands. Give it a couple of months, he'll move onto someone else. Like Barry Manilow."

He's hoping the reference to an old conversation they had once will garner at least the hint of a smile, and it does, but it's not as genuine as he would have liked.

While a part of her thinks this situation warrants a little more thought than he seems to be giving it, she finally relaxes a little. Rossi _did_ write a new book recently, and he just completed a multi-city book tour, so it's entirely possible this suddenly infatuated fan could be a result of that, and nothing more. He did show up to every single book signing Dave had, though, which is a level of devotion that is not at all healthy.

"Maybe you're right, maybe now that your tour's done, he'll back off, find another obsession." She concedes, hoping it's just an ephemeral obsession, and doesn't escalate into something more sinister. Some fans do get supremely attached to the object of their attention, even sending elaborate gifts, and not all of them are necessarily a danger. She knows that. But those people aren't Dave, and Dave is...too important for her to just laugh it off.

"And if he _doesn't_, I'll handle it." He downs the rest of his scotch, and then gets up to rinse out the glass before loading it into the dishwasher. When he comes back to the den, he takes a seat across from Emily, reaching for one of her hands. "The only thing I wanna think about for the rest of the night is you. I missed you."

A part of her is still annoyed, and wants to discomfit his advances before he starts to get any insane ideas in his head that he can placate her with his intoxicating presence. But then he kisses the palm of her hand, and his warm breath stirs the blood in her veins. Oh, who is she kidding? His charm undid her years ago.

That doesn't mean, however, that she makes this easy for him. "You did, huh?" Her voice is calm, even, with not even a hint of curiosity.

His thumb brushes against her pulse point with deep, even strokes. "I like waking up next to you." Those months after her "death" had been hell, and he'd had plenty of sleepless nights. Now that she's back, and they've begun the agonizingly slow, delicate process of reaffirming their unconventional union, he feels her absence more deeply.

"You do look tired." There's no mistaking that look in his eyes, and she wants the same thing. But the game is fun, and familiar, and God, she missed him, too. Missed _this_.

There's a low rumble of protest in his throat, and he pulls her fingers to his lips, tongue darting out briefly to lick the tip of her index finger. She swallows heavily, but tilts her head to the side, daring him to say anything to the contrary.

"Not as tired as I hope to be."

He is older than her, there's no denying that, but the man has some kind of inhuman stamina when it comes to making love, and she's already imagining their bodies tangling together in the long night ahead. It's enough to make her flushed, and she pulls her hand back, stands up, moves over to check his fridge.

Dave follows her into the kitchen with a puzzled look on his face, frowning a little as she leans back against the fridge with her arms folded over her chest.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh, just making sure your fridge is stocked." She moves forward to tug on his collar a bit, and then presses a lingering kiss against his neck before pulling away. Her eyes are dark with intent, her machinations suddenly clear to him. "We'll need the sustenance after I get done with you."

Dave suspects Aaron has at least a vague awareness that something is going on between Emily and him. They haven't completely defined it themselves, so it must be equally esoteric to outsiders, even though their team is about as tightly bound together as a group of people _can_ be. The fact that JJ rejoined the team as a profiler means they all tend to rotate partners a little more often, though lately, Hotch has been sending Dave out with Emily more often than ever before. He doubts it's silent assent so much as it is, perhaps, his quiet way of testing how well they can pull this off, and maintain the level of professionalism he expects of them. He trusts them enough not to worry about being proven wrong, and Dave knows that despite their abiding friendship, if Aaron ever felt either of them lost their objectivity in a way that endangered them or the team, they'd have a severe discussion.

It's raining heavily today in Arlington, and this case cuts into their weekend, but at least it's close to home. Dave arrives with Emily at the crime scene, holding an umbrella over his head while Emily forges ahead to inspect the body. Dave chats with the detective, and surveys the surrounding crime scene from various angles, analyzing how the body was dumped, the meticulousness that went into grooming the victim. The rain has washed away a lot of the blood, and other trace evidence, but they have more insight into the killer's psyche, in the time he spent with her, the little details he put into arranging her. Once the coroner's office comes to collect the body, Dave steps away to get a look at some of the people standing behind the yellow caution tape; some seem horrified, some seem morbidly curious about catching a glimpse of a murder victim. But then his eyes land on a familiar face, and he frowns.

_Not this kid again_. It's been a week since he had that discussion with Emily about his overzealous fan, and he thought for sure it was all behind them now. And yet, here he is. Dave glances over his shoulder briefly, just to gauge where Emily is. Still talking to the detective.

He can make this brief, firmly express his ambivalence to this kid's intense adoration, and hopefully dismiss him once and for all.

"Agent Rossi!" The kid – Peter, that's right, Peter Foster – beams at him as he approaches.

"Look, son," he tries for a soft approach. He can adeptly walk that fine line between being unapologetic, yet delicate and well-intentioned in his approach. This is a young kid who probably doesn't have much of a father figure, or any sort of mentor in his life, and attaches like a leech to anyone who will give him the time of day. Dave doesn't set out to be _mean_, though a little harshness seems necessary in this case. "This needs to stop. I get it, you're a big fan, you've read _every_ book I wrote, and hey, I'm flattered. But you need to take a step back and think about what you're doing. This is a crime scene. Someone is dead. This isn't make believe, this isn't fiction-"

"I-I know that, I just-"

Dave waves his hand to silence him. "If this kind of work interests you, go to school, get your degree. Following me around isn't gonna help you, and it's not healthy." He doesn't generally care about tact, especially not when he believes he's telling someone something they need to hear.

The young man's smile falters, his eyes darken, but he persists. "I-I don't care about _this_ stuff, just you. _You_ interest me."

That disorients him for a second; he wasn't prepared for that response _at all_. "Go home," he says gruffly. "Take a nice girl out to dinner, join a band, play cards, whatever. Just get something resembling a life. I'm busy. We have a bad guy to catch."

Dave turns to walk away, and almost bumps into Emily, who must've heard at least some of their conversation. She glances over Dave's shoulder at Peter, then looks back at Dave, eyes dark and unreadable.

Dave begins to walk away, but the boy calls out to him again: "So...so I know you'll catch him!"

Looking over his shoulder at Peter, Dave's frown deepens, but he says nothing, just continues to walk away. Emily hangs back for an extra few seconds, and then follows. When they're both in the SUV, Dave waits for Emily to say something, surprised when she says nothing at all. The only sound accompanying their entire drive back to the station is the heavy patter of rain.

"I want you to take this more seriously," she insists, leaning forward and folding her hands together. This scene is eerily familiar to the last one, though he can tell by her body language that she's more worried this time, more likely to be angry if he doesn't agree with her.

"You can be my bodyguard. Is that serious enough?" His tone, though, belies his words, indicating that he is still anything _but_ serious. Yeah, the kid showing up at the crime scene crossed a line. But it just happened, and he was far more direct and unfriendly with him than he'd ever been before, so he wants to believe that will sink in and make him back off. Rushing into full blown panic isn't his style.

She springs up from the chair, frustration increasing. Her back is to him, with one hand resting on her hip, the other on the side of her head as she thinks about what to say, and how to word it.

"If this were me-"

"_Don't_ go there, Emily," his tone shifts abruptly, an icy undercurrent there, as he flashes back to memories of Doyle, and that terrifying night when they'd seemingly arrived too late to save her.

That rouses her ire even more, and she narrows her eyes at him. "'Don't go there'? Are you _kidding_? You think all he wants is what, an autograph, a photo for his scrapbook? He's escalating, he's following you."

"I should have kept my mouth shut in the first place," he laments, feeling baited and trapped, and pushes back by being puerile, saying something that will upset her just because he knows it will, and his emotions are a little frayed.

He values his life, of course he does, and there's been an escalation in this person's obsession with him, which means he's going to be more cautious than usual until he's certain the kid has taken the hint and retreated. But Dave always been the type to put the safety of others ahead of himself, and even now, he thinks if this obsession really is more dangerous than he fully realizes, the people around him could be in just as much danger as him. If the roles were reversed, though, he imagines his reaction would mirror Emily's, which foments a certain amount of sympathy in regards to her perspective. It's not enough to get him to suddenly change his mind, though.

"I thought we didn't do that with each other. We don't hide things," she counters, her voice almost begging him not to dispute that.

"I thought so, too." He finishes his glass of Scotch, and then folds his hands together, the pads of his thumbs brushing against each other.

"Dave-"

"You've hidden things from me, from all of us." _From me_, is the most important part of that admission.

And now his voice has dipped an octave, like they aren't just words, but an elegy for something they lost months ago.

It's been seething under the surface for a while now. Dave was her safe haven when she returned, the only other member of the team, apart from Hotch and JJ, who wasn't _angry_, who understood why she'd done what she had. But they had been intimate for many months, ever since he'd stuck by her when Matthew died. They'd been together in an ineffable way that kept pulling them toward each other, no matter how many times both tried to detach and say it didn't mean more than sex, and human touch. Because sometimes human beings just needed to be _held_, they needed to not be alone for a little while, and Dave and Emily could do that for each other. They _had_ been doing that, and then Doyle happened. So she would have understood his anger, if it had existed.

It surprises her now. Her eyes widen briefly, then narrow and darken, and she moves away from him, almost shaking from emotion. But it's _not_ anger. It's...sadness, disappointment, regret. That she didn't trust _him_ enough to tell him, when she had told him all of her other deepest, darkest secrets, when she would have trusted him enough to let him shine in all chambers of her heart, even the dark corners that she didn't dare navigate alone. She still trusts him that much, and she knows that _he_ knows that, but it still hurts him.

They've had sex a few times since she returned to the BAU; always, there was this frenzy to their movements, like they were both trying to prove something to themselves and each other, like all the things they were afraid to say out loud could be given brief dominion, and life, when they coalesced. But he wants more than she can give right now, he wants to be at the place they were before she had to hide. And going back to that place isn't an option anymore, so she's felt wayward ever since, trying to reconcile her abject fear of letting him in again with the fear that she could push him away entirely.

He sighs softly, regretting the words almost as soon as they leave his mouth. Oh, he can be a bastard, and he meant what he said. He's not one to hold back. He'd rather put all the cards on the table, and then clean up the mess together. But it brings up painful memories for both of them, and that just complicates this entire situation even more.

"You want me to be safe, Emily, and I get that. Don't doubt it. But hiding isn't going to accomplish anything, so it's not up for debate."

She works at the inside of her cheek, and then speaks, "I don't know what I'm worried about – that ego of yours makes you bulletproof."

"This isn't about my _ego_."

"There's not a small part of you that thinks you can protect yourself against everything, that you don't need anyone else to protect you?"

There is a hint of truth in those words, which is why he's suddenly taciturn, spending more time thinking about whether he wants another scotch, than anything else.

"You better damn well believe I'd take a bullet for you," she says, her tone fiery.

He looks up sharply. "I was kidding. This is not that serious. If I have to worry about anything, it's getting locked up in that kid's basement and being forced to watch science fiction movies with him for the rest of my life. Torture, yes. Life-threatening? No."

"Do I look like _I'm_ kidding?" She's not. He doesn't even have to look to know. That, at least, is comforting, given everything they've put on the table tonight.

"If this _is_ something, there's no way in hell you're putting yourself in danger." Her life can't be on the line again, not if he can help it.

She throws her hands up, feeling exasperated, and knowing the conversation isn't going anywhere productive. There's still no formal commitment between them, so under normal circumstances, walking away to give them both some breathing room and time to clear their heads would be her preferential way of coping. He's always been better in that regard, dealing with something more quickly, not compartmentalizing and pushing it aside to deal with later.

It's late, anyway, and they should probably go to bed. And she doesn't feel comfortable leaving tonight. "At least talk to Hotch in the morning."

He does this thing with his eyes when he's getting ready to apologize: they'll shift to the side, shift down sometimes, knowing he's not completely right, that he's fumbled a little and needs to make up for it, and can't make eye contact until the words sound right in his head.

"Emily-" But he's cut off when his cell phone rings. Unknown number. Dave frowns, then answers it after the second ring.

"Agent Rossi! It's Peter! I-I- you gave me your card, at the first book signing. I forgot I had it, and it fell out of my camera bag, and well...I-I just wanted to hear your voice."

_Shit_.


End file.
